UC-NRLF 


Samuel  Xeasfc 


Ibis  ffioofc 


Tf  tbou  art  borrowed  by  a 

friend, 

Right  welcome  shall  be  be 
to  read,  to  study,  not  to  lend, 
But  to  return  to  me**** 


not  tbat  imparted  knowl- 
edge dotb 

Diminisb  learning's  store, 
But  books,!  find,  if  often  lent, 
Return  to  me  no  more  ««««««« 


Class 


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HOME  BALLADS 


BY 


BAYARD   TAYLOR 


WITH  ILL  USTRA  TIONS 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 
€{)e  ftifcer^itie  $re££,  CamftriDgc 

1882 


Copyright,  1875, 
BY  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Copyright,  1879, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1881, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Rtversid*  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  QUAKER  WIDOW       .  

THE  HOLLY-TREE 

JOHN   REED    . 

JANE  REED         .        .        .... 

THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FARMER    .         .        •        • 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  Engravings  have  been  made  by  \V.  B.  CLOSSON  and  GEORGE  T.  ANDREW  of  Boston  ;  W.  J.  LIN- 
TON  of  New  Haven  ;  N.  ORR  &  Co.,  HENRY  GRAY,  and  E.  H.EINEMAN  of  A'ew  York. 

4 

HOME  BALLADS.  Artist.  Page. 

Half  Title ." W.L.TAYLOR.       ...      5 

THE  QUAKER  WIDOW. 

"  My  wedding  gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my 

taste" F.  DIELMAN.      Frontispiece. 

Half  Title W.  H.  GIBSON      .    .    .     11 

"  And  hear  the  pleasant  bees 

Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple- 
trees"    J.  F.  MURPHY  ....     13 

"  Come  sit  thee  down  !  Here  is  the  bench  where  Benja- 
min would  sit" F.  DIELMAN 15 

"  The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of 

flowers" W.L.TAYLOR.     ...     19 

THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

Half  Title     .     .    . •    , W.  H.  GIBSON  .     ...     21 

"  The  work  was  done  on  the  farm,  '/  was  orderly  every- 
where"   H.  BOLTON  JONES  .  .23 

"T  iv  as  so  with  Gabriel  Parke  :  he  stood  by  the  holly  - 

tree " .  T.  HOVENDEN  ....  25 

"  He  lifted 'up  from  the  grass  the  feeble,  chittering  thing"     T.  HOVENDEN  .     .     .     .     2t> 

"  But  the  home  must  be  theirs  alone  " .     H:  BOLTON  JONES     .     .    32 

"  The  mother  looked  from  the  house,  concealed  by  the 

window-pane" T.  HOVENDEN  .  .  .  •  33 


10  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

JOHN  REED. 

Half  Title .     .     .     W.  H.  GIBSON  .     .     .     .35 

"  There  'j  a  mist  on  the  meadow  below  " F.  S.  CHURCH    ....     37 

"  1 see,  as  I lean  on  the  Jence,  how  wearily  trudges  Dan"     F.  S.  CHURCH    ....     39 

"  The  weather  is  breeding  rain, 
And  Dan  is  hurrying  on  with  his  plough-team  up  the 

lane" F.  S.  CHURCH   ....    42 

JANE  REED. 

Half  Title W.  H.  GIBSON  ....     43 

"  Here  Cherry  !  —  she  'j  found  me  out,  the  calf  I  raised 

in  the  spring" G.  H.  YEWELL  ....    45 

"  She  leaned  on  the  heifer's  neck :  the  dry  leaves  fell  from 

the  boughs  " F.  D.  MILLET    ....     47 

"  There  was  autumn  haze  in  the  air,  and  sunlight  low 

onthehiir W.  L.  TAYLOR  .     ...     51 

THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FARMER. 

Half  Title W.  H.  GIBSON  ....     53 

"Where  the  clearing  laps  across  the  meadow" s  head"      .     W.  L.  TAYLOR  .     .     .     .     55 
"  1 r'm  glad  I  built  this  southern  porch,  my  chair  seems 

easier  here" J.  N.  MARBLE  ....     57 

"And  they  that  come  long  after  us  will  find  things  gone 

to  wrack"  G.W.EDWARDS   .     .     .     61 


• 


THE. QUAKER   WIDOW. 


i. 


THEE  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah, — come  in!     'Tis  kind  of  thee 
To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who  came  to  comfort  me. 
The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may  give,  indeed, 
But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes  to  us  at  need. 


ii. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  !     Here  is  the  bench  where  Benjamin  would  sit 
On  First  Day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watch  the  swallows  flit : 
He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hear  the  pleasant  bees 
Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple-trees. 


in. 

I  think  he  loved  the  spring :   not  that  he  cared  for  flowers  :  most  men 
Think  such  things  foolishness,  —  but  we  were  first  acquainted  then, 
One  spring :   the  next  he  spoke  his  mind  ;   the  third  I  was  his  wife, 
And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  children  entered  life. 


14  THE   QUAKER    WIDOW, 

r 

IV. 

He  was  but  seventy-five  :   I  did  not  think  to  lay  him  yet 
In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly  Meeting  first  we  met 
The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this :   't  is  better  I  should  be 
Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross  —  alone  in  age  —  than  he. 


v. 

We've  lived  together  fifty  years:   it  seems  but  one  long  day, 
One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was  called  away ; 
And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting  time  a  sweet  contentment  homes 
So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the  days  to  come. 

VI. 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it  was  to  know 
If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I  should  go ; 
For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind  that  day, 
But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin, — she  knew  what  best  to  say. 


VII. 

Then  she  was  still :   they  sat  awhile  :    at  last  she  spoke  again, 

"The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right!"  and  "Thou  shalt  have  him,  Jane  !  " 

My  father  said.     I  cried.     Indeed,  'twas  not  the  least  of  shocks, 

For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Orthodox. 


THE    QUAKER    WIDOW. 

VIII. 

I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daughter  Ruth  we  lost : 
Her  husband  's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could  not  see  her  crossed. 
She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she  hears  a  hireling  priest, 
Ah,  dear  !  the  cross  was  ours  :  her  life  's  a  happy  one,  at  least. 


IX. 

Perhaps  she  '11  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she  's  as  old  as  I,  — 
Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah  ?   once  /  felt  temptation  nigh  ! 
My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my  taste  : 
I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon  at  the  waist. 


How  strange  it  seemed  to  sit  with  him  upon  the  women's  side  ! 
I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  :    I  felt  more  fear  than  pride, 
Till,  "  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  and  then  there  came 
A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I  could  say  the  same. 


XI. 

I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  then  I  showed  no  sign  ; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his  hand  in  mine. 
It  seemed  my  bashfulness  was  gone,  now  I  was  his  for  life  : 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah,  —  thee,  too,  hast  been  a  wife. 


1 8  THE    QUAKER    WIDOW. 


As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so  green  as  ours  ; 
The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of  flowers  ; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every  face  was  kind,  - 
'T  is  strange  how  lively  everything  comes  back  upon  my  mind. 


XIII. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding  dinner  spread  : 

At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father  at  the  head, 

And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both, —  t  was  she  stood  up  with  me, 

And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin,  —  and  now  they're  gone,  all  three 


XIV. 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death  ;    the  Lord  disposes  best. 
His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them  for  his  rest  ; 
And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  merciful,  I  see  : 
For  Benjamin  has  two  in   heaven,  'and  two  are  left  with  me. 


xv. 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm,  —  't  was  not  his  call,  in  truth, 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to  daughter  Ruth. 
Thee  '11  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine,  —  young  people  nowadays 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the  good  old  ways. 


THE    QUAKER    WIDOW,  \ 

XVI. 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart ;   she  keeps  the  simple  tongue, 
The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when  she  was  young ; 
And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remembering  her,  of  late, 
That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps  lay  too  much  weight. 


XVII. 

I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say,  a  spirit  clothed  with  grace, 
And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have  a  homely  face. 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account  ;   the  Lord  will  look  within 
The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  or  sin. 


XVIII. 

Thee  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth  :   she  's  anxious  I  should  go, 
And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should,  I  know. 
'T  is  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must  be  resigned  : 
The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a  willing  mind. 


THE    HOLLY-TREE. 


THE  corn  was  warm  in  the  ground,  the  fences  were  mended  and  made, 
And  the  garden-beds,  as  smooth  as  a  counterpane  is  laid, 
Were  dotted  and  striped  with  green  where  the  peas  and  radishes  grew, 
With  elecampane  at  the  foot,  and  comfrey,  and  sage,  and  rue. 

ii. 

The  work  was  done  on  the  farm,  't  was  orderly  everywhere, 
And  comfort  smiled  from  the  earth,  and  rest  was  felt  in  the  air. 
When  a  Saturday  afternoon  at  such  a  time  comes  round, 
The  farmer's  fancies  grow,  as  grows  the  grain  in  his  ground. 


in. 

'Twas  so  with  Gabriel  Parke  :   he  stood  by  the  holly-tree 
That  came,  in  the  time  of  Penn,  with  his  fathers  over  the  sea  : 
A  hundred  and  eighty  years  it  had  grown  where  it  first  was  set, 
And  the  thorny  leaves  were  thick  and  the  trunk  was  sturdy  yet. 


24  THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

IV. 

From  the  knoll  where  stood  the  house  the  fair  fields  pleasantly  rolled 
To  dells  where  the  laurels  hung,  and  meadows  of  butter-cup  gold  : 
He  looked  on  them  all  by  turns,  with  joy  in  his  acres  free, 
But  ever  his  thoughts  came  back  to  the  tale  of  the  holly-tree. 

v. 

In  beautiful  Warwickshire,  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
John  Parke,  in  his  English  home,  had  dreamed  a  singular  dream. 
He  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  for  love  of  a  bashful  maid, 
And  a  vision  came  as  he  slept  one  day  in  a  holly's  shade. 


VI. 

An  angel  sat  in  the  boughs,  and  showed  him  a  goodly  land, 
With  hills  that  fell  to  a  brook,  and  forests  on  either  hand, 
And  said  :    "  Thou  shalt  wed  thy  love,  and  this  shall  belong  to  you 
For  the  earth  has  ever  a  home  for  a  tender  heart  and  true  !  " 


Even  so  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  angel  promised  then  : 
He  wedded  and  wandered  forth  with  the  earliest  friends  of  Penn, 
And  the  home  foreshown  he  found,  with  all  that  a  home  endears, 
A  nest  of  plenty  and  peace,  for  a  hundred  and  eighty  years  ! 


THE   HOLLY-TREE.  27 


In  beautiful  Warwickshire  the  life  of  the  two  began,  — 
A  slip  of  the  tree  of  the  dream,  a  far-off  sire  of  the  man  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  Gabriel  Parke,  as  the  leaves  above  him  stirred, 
That  the  secret  dream  of  his  heart  the  soul  of  the  holly  heard. 


IX. 

Of  Patience  Phillips  he  thought :    she,  too,  was  a  bashful  maid : 
The  blue  of  her  eyes  was  hid  by  the  eyelash's  golden  shade  ; 
But  well  that  she  could  not  hide  the  cheeks  that  were  fair  to  see 
As  the  pink  of  an  apple-bud,  ere  the  blossom  snows  the  tree ! 


x. 

Ah  !   how  had  the  English  Parke  to  the  English  girl  betrayed, 
Save  a  dream  had  helped  his  heart,  the  love  that  makes  afraid  ?  — 
That  seemed  to  smother  his  voice,  when  his  blood  so  sweetly  ran, 
And  the  baby  heart  lay  weak  in  the  rugged  breast  of  the  man  ? 


XI. 

His  glance  came  back  from  the  hills  and  back  from  the  laurel  glen, 
And  fell  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  where  clucked  a  mother  hen, 
With  a  brood  of  tottering  chicks,  that  followed  as  best  they  might ; 
But  one  was  trodden  and  lame,  and  drooped  in  a  woful  plight. 


28  THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

XII. 

He  lifted  up  from  the  grass  the  feeble,  chittering  thing, 
And  warmed  its  breast  at  his  lips,  and  smoothed  its  stumpy  wing, 
When,  lo !    at  his  side  a  voice  :    "  Is  it  hurt  ? "  was  all  she  said  ; 
But  the  eyes  of  both  were  shy,  and  the  cheeks  of  both  were  red. 

XIII. 

She  took  from  his  hand  the  chick,  and  fondled  and  soothed  it  then, 
While,  knowing  that  good  was  meant,  cheerfully  clucked  the  hen  ; 
And  the  tongues  of  the  two  were  loosed  :  there  seemed  a  wonderful  charm 
In  talk  of  the  hatching  fowls  and  spring-work  done  on  the  farm. 


XIV. 

But  Gabriel  saw  that  her  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  holly-tree : 

Have  you  heard,"  he  said,  '  how  it  came  with  the  family  over  the  sea  ?" 

He  told  the  story  again,  though  he  knew  she  knew  it  well, 

And  a  spark  of  hope,  as  he  spake,  like  fire  in  his  bosom  fell. 


xv. 

"  I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream,  here,  under  the  tree,  just  now," 
He  said;    and  Patience  felt  the  warmth  of  his  eyes  on  her  brow: 

"  I  dreamed,  like  the  English  Parke  ;    already  the  farm  I  own, 
But  the  rest  of  the  dream  is  best  —  the  land  is  little,  alone." 


THE  HOLLY-TREE.  31 

XVI. 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  the  maid  :   her  flushing  cheek  was  bent, 
And,  under  her  chin,  the  chick  was  cheeping  its  warm  content ; 
But  naught  she  answered — then  he:  "O  Patience!    I  thought  of  you! 
Tell  me  you  take  the  dream,  and  help  me  to  make  it  true !  " 


xvn. 

The  mother  looked  from  the  house,  concealed  by  the  window-pane, 
And  she  felt  that  the  holly's  spell  had  fallen  upon  the  twain  ; 
She  guessed  from  Gabriel's  face  what  the  words  he  had  spoken  were, 
And  blushed  in  the  maiden's  stead,  as  if  they  were  spoken  to  her. 


XVIII. 

She  blushed,  and  she  turned  away,  ere  the  trembling  man  and  maid 
Silently  hand  in  hand  had  kissed  in  the  holly's  shade, 
And   Patience  whispered  at  last,  her  sweet  eyes  dim  with  dew  : 
"  O  Gabriel !   could  you  dream  as  much  as  I  've  dreamed  of  you  ? " 


The  mother  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  her  straight  old  chair 
"  He  's  got  the  pick  of  the  flock,  so  tidy  and  kind  and  fair ! 
At  first  I  shall  find  it  hard,  to  sit  and  be  still,  and  see 
How  the  house  is  kept  to  rights  by  somebody  else  than  me. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 


"But  the  home  must  be  theirs  alone:    I'll  do  by  her,  if  I  can, 
As  Gabriel's  grandmother  did,  when  I  as  a  wife  began  : 
So  good  and  faithful  he  's  been,  from  the  hour  when  I  gave  him  life, 
He  shall  master  be  in  the  house,  and  mistress  shall  be  his  wife !  " 


JOHN    REED. 

THERE'S  a  mist  on  the  meadow  below  ;  the  herring-frogs  chirp  and  cry; 
It's  chill  when  the  sun  is  clown,  and  the  sod  is  not  yet  dry: 
The  world  is  a  lonely  place,  it  seems,  and  I  don't  know  why. 

I  see,  as  I  lean  on  the  fence,  how  wearily  trudges  Dan 

With  the  feel  of  the  spring  in  his  bones,  like  a  weak  and  elderly  man  ; 

I  've  had  it  a  many  a  time,  but  we  must  work  when  we  can. 


But*  day  after  day  to  toil,  and  ever  from  sun  to  sun, 
Though  up  to  the  season's  front  and  nothing  be  left  undone, 
Is  ending  at  twelve  like  a  clock,  and  beginning  again  at  one. 


The  frogs  make  a  sorrowful  noise,  and  yet  it 's  the  time  they  mate  ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  a  lightness  or  else  a  weight ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  and  it  seems  to  me  it 's  fate. 


38  JOHN  REED. 

It 's  the  hankering  after  a  life  that  you  never  have  learned  to  know  ; 

It's  the  discontent  with  a  life  that  is  always  thus  and  so; 

It 's  the  wondering  what  we  are,  and  where  we  are  going  to  go. 

My  life  is  lucky  enough,  I  fancy,  to  most  men's  eyes, 
For  the  more  a  family  grows,  the  oftener  some  one  dies, 
And  it 's  now  run  on  so  long,  it  could  n't  be  otherwise. 

And  Sister  Jane  and  myself,  we  have  learned  to  claim  and  yield  ; 

She  rules  in  the  house  at  will,  and  I  in  the  barn  and  field, 

So,  nigh  upon  thirty  years  !  —  as  if  written  and  signed  and  sealed. 

I  could  n't  change  if  I  would  ;    I  've  lost  the  how  and  the  when  ; 
One  day  my  time  will  be  up,  and  Jane  be  the  mistress  then, 
For  single  women  are  tough,  and  live  down  the  single  men. 

• 

She  kept  me  so  to  herself,  she  was  always  the  stronger  hand, 

And  my  lot  showed  well  enough,  when  I  looked  around  in  the  land  ; 

But  I  'm  tired  and  sore  at  heart,  and  I  don't  quite  understand. 


I  wonder  how  it  had  been  if  I  'd  taken  what  others  need, 
The  plague,  they  say,  of  a  wife,  the  care  of  a  younger  breed  ? 
If  Edith  Pleasanton  now  were  with  me  as  Edith  Reed  ? 


JOHN  REED.  41 

Suppose  that  a  son  well  grown  were  there  in  the  place  of  Dan, 
And  I  felt  myself  in  him,  as  I  was  when  my  work  began  ? 
I  should  feel  no  older,  sure,  and  certainly  more  a  man  ! 

A  daughter,  besides,  in  the  house ;    nay,  let  there  be  two  or  three  ! 

We  never  can  overdo  the  luck  that  can  never  be, 

And  what  has  come  to  the  most  might  also  have  come  to  me. 


I  've  thought,  when  a  neighbor's  wife  or  his  child  was  carried  away, 
That  to  have  no  loss  was  a  gain  ;   but  now,  —  I  can  hardly  say  ; 
He  seems  to  possess  them  still,  under  the  ridges  of  clay. 

And  share  and  share  in  a  life  is,  somehow,  a  different  thing 
From  property  held  by  deed,  and  the  riches  that  oft  take  wing ; 
I  feel  so  close  in  the  breast !  —  I  think  it  must  be  the  spring. 


I  'm  drying  up  like  a  brook  when  the  woods  have  been  cleared  around 
You  're  sure  it  must  always  run,  you  are  used  to  the  sight  and  sound, 
But  it  shrinks  till  there  's  only  left  a  stony  rut  in  the  ground. 


There  's  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  days  as  they  come  and  go, 
And  not  to  worry  with  thoughts  that  nobody  likes  to  show, 
For  people  so  seldom  talk  of  the  things  they  want  to  know. 


2  JOHN  REED. 

There  's  times  when  the  way  is  plain,  and  everything  nearly  right, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  you  stand  like  a  man  with  a  clouded  sight 
A  bush  seems  often  a  beast,  in  the  dusk  of  the  falling  night. 

I  must  move  ;    my  joints  are  stiff  ;    the  weather  is  breeding  rain, 
And  Dan  is  hurrying  on  with  his  plough-team  up  the  lane. 
I  '11  go  to  the  village  store  ;    I  'd  rather  not  talk  with  Jane. 


*      JANE   REED. 

IF  I  could  forget,"  she  said,  "  forget,  and  begin  again  ! 

We  see  so  dull  at  the  time,  and,  looking  back,  so  plain  : 

There  's  a  quiet  that 's  worse,  I  think,  than  many  a  spoken  strife, 

And  it 's  wrong  that  one  mistake  should  change  the  whole  of  a  life. 


There  's  John,  forever  the  same,  so  steady,  sober,  and  mild  ; 
Me  never  storms  as  a  man  who  never  cried  as  a  child  : 
Perhaps  my  ways  are  harsh,  but  if  he  would  seem  to  care, 
There  'd  be  fewer  swallowed  words  and  a  lighter  load  to  bear. 


Here,  Cherry  !  —  she  's  found  me  out,  the  calf  I  raised  in  the  spring, 

And  a  likely  heifer  she 's  grown,  the  foolish,  soft-eyed  thing ! 

Just  the  even  color  I  like,   without  a  dapple  or  speck, — 

O  Cherry,  bend  down  your  head,  and  let  me  cry  on  your  neck! 


46  JANE   REED. 

"The  poor  dumb  beast  she  is,  she  never  can  know  nor  tell, 
And  it  seems  to  do  me  good,  the  very  shame  of  the  spell  : 
So  old  a  woman  and  hard,  and  Joel  so  old  a  man.  — 
But  the  thoughts  of  the  old  go  on  as  the  thoughts  of  the  young  began  I 


''It's  guessing  that  wastes  the  heart,  far  worse  than  the  surest  fate: 
If  I  knew  he  had  thought  of  me,  I  could  quietly  work  and  wait  ; 
And  then  when  either,  at  last,  on  a  bed  of  death  should  lie, 
Why,  one  might  speak  the  truth,  and  the  other  hear  and  die  !  " 


She  leaned  on  the  heifer's  neck  ;    the  dry  leaves  fell  from  the  boughs,, 
And  over  the  sweet  late  grass  of  the  meadow  strayed  the  cows  : 
The  golden  dodder  meshed  the  cardinal-flower  by  the  rill  ; 
There  was  autumn  haze  in  the  air,  and  sunlight  low  on  the  hill. 


"  I  've  somehow  missed  my  time,"  she  said  to  herself  and  sighed  : 
"  What  girls  are  free  to  hope,  a  steady  woman  must  hide, 
But  the  need  outstays  the  chance :    it  makes  me  cry  and  laugh, 
To  think  that  the  only  thing  I  can  talk  to  now  is  a  calf ! " 


JANE  REED.  49 

A  step  came  down  from  the  hill  :    she  did  not  turn  or  rise  ; 
There  was  something  in  her  heart  that  saw  without  the  eyes. 
She  heard  the  foot  delay,  as  doubting  to  stay  or  go  : 
"  Is  the  heifer  for  sale  ?  "    he  said.     She  sternly  answered,  "  No  !  " 


She  lifted  her  head  as  she  spoke  :    their  eyes  a  moment  met, 
And  her  heart  repeated  the  words,  "  If  I  could  only  forget !  " 
He  turned  a  little  away,  but  her  lowered  eyes  could  see 
His  hand,  as  it  picked  the  bark  from  the  trunk  of  a  hickory-tree. 


u  Why  can't  we  be  friendly,  Jane  ? "  his  words  came,  strange  and  slow  ; 

"  You  seem  to  bear  me  a  grudge,  so  long,  and  so  long  ago  ! 
You  were  gay  and  free  with  the  rest,  but  always  so  shy  of  me, 
That,  before  my  freedom  came,  I  saw  that  it  could  n't  be." 


"  Joel !  "  was  all  she  cried,  as  their  glances  met  again, 
And  a  sudden  rose  effaced  her  pallor  of  age  and  pain. 
He  picked  at  the  hickory  bark  :    "  It 's  a  curious  thing  to  say  ; 
But  I  'm  lonely  since  Phoebe  died  and  the  girls  are  married  away. 


50  JANE   REED. 

"That's  why  these  thoughts  come  back:    I 'm  a  little  too  old  for  pride, 
And  I  never  could  understand  how  love  should  be  all  one  side  : 
'T  would  answer  itself,  I  thought,  and  time  would  show  me  how  ; 
But  it  didn't  come  so,  then,  and  it  doesn't  seem  so,  now!" 


"  Joel,  it  came  so,  then ! "  —  and  her  voice  was  thick  with  tears  : 
"  A  hope  for  a  single  day,  and  a  bitter  shame  for  years  !  " 

He  snapped  the  ribbon  of  bark  ;    he  turned  from  the  hickory-tree  : 
"  Jane,  look  me  once  in  the  face,  and  say  that  you  thought  of  me !  " 


She  looked,  and  feebly  laughed  :    "  It 's  a  comfort  to  know  the  truth, 
Though  the  chance  was  thrown  away  in  the  blind  mistake  of  youth.' 
"  And  a  greater  comfort,  Jane,"  he  said,  with  a  tender  smile, 
"To  find  the  chance  you  have  lost,  and  keep  it  a  little  while." 


She  rose  as  he  spake  the  words  :   the  petted  heifer  thrust 
Her  muzzle  between  the  twain,  with  an  animal's  strange  mistrust : 
But  over  the  creature's  neck  he  drew  her  to  his  breast  : 
"A  horse  is  never  so  old  but  it  pulls  with  another  best!" 


THE  OLD  .PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER. 


WELL  —  well!    this  is  a  comfort,  now — the  air  is  mild  as  May, 
And  yet  't  is  March  the  twentieth,  or  twenty-first,  to-day  : 
And  Reuben  ploughs  the  hill  for  corn  ;    I  thought  it  would  be  tough, 
But  now  I  see  the  furrows  turned,  I  guess  it  ?s  dry  enough. 


n. 

I  don't  half  live,  penned  up  in  doors  ;    a  stove  's  not  like  the  sun. 
When  I  can't  see  how  things  go  on,  I  fear  they  're  badly  done : 
I  might  have  farmed  till  now,  I  think  —  one's  family  is  so  queer - 
As  if  a  man  can't  oversee  who  's  in  his  eightieth  year ! 


in. 

Father,  I  mind,  was  eighty-five  before  he  gave  up  his  ; 
But  he  was  dim  o'  sight  and  crippled  with  the  rheumatiz. 
I  followed  in  the  old,  steady  way,  so  he  was  satisfied  ; 
But  Reuben  likes  new-fangled  things  and  ways  I  can't  abide. 


56  THE    OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER. 

IV. 

I  'm  glad  I  built  this  southern  porch  ;   my  chair  seems  easier  here : 
I  have  n't  seen  as  fine  a  spring  this  five-and-twenty  year  ! 
And  how  the  time  goes  round  so  quick! — a  week,  I  would  have  sworn, 
Since  they  were  husking  on  the  flat,  and  now  they  plough  for  corn  ! 


When  I  was  young,  time  had  for  me  a  lazy  ox's  pace, 

But  now  it's' like  a  blooded  horse,  that  means  to  win  the  race. 

And  yet  I  can't  fill  out  my  days,  I  tire  myself  with  naught; 

I  'd  rather  use  my  legs  and  hands  than  plague  my  head  with  thought. 


VI. 

There's  Marshall,  too,  I  see  from  here:   he  and  his  boys  begin. 

Why  don't  they  take  the  lower  field  ?   that  one  is  poor  and  thin. 

A  coat  of  lime  it  ought  to  have,  but  they're  a  doless  set : 

They  think  swamp-mud  's  as  good,  but  we  shall  see  what  corn  they  get ! 


vn. 

Across  the  level,  Brown's  new  place  begins  to  make  a  show ; 
I  thought  he  'd  have  to  wait  for  trees,  but,  bless  me,  how  they  grow ! 
They  say  it's  fine  —  two  acres  filled  with  evergreens  and  things; 
But  so  much  land  !   it  worries  me,  for  not  a  cent  it  brings. 


THE   OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER.  59 

VIII. 

He  has  the  right,  I  don't  deny,  to  please  himself  that  way, 
But  't  is  a  bad  example  set,  and  leads  young  folks  astray  : 
Book-learning  gets  the  upper-hand  and  work  is  slow  and  slack, 
And  they  that  come  long  after  us  will  find  things  gone  to  wrack. 


IX. 

Now  Reuben  's  on  the  hither  side,  his  team  comes  back  again  ; 
I  know  how  deep  he  sets  the  share,  I  see  the  horses  strain  : 
I  had  that  field  so  clean  of  stones,  but  he  must  plough  so  deep, 
He  '11  have  it  like  a  turnpike  soon,  and  scarcely  fit  for  sheep. 


x. 

If  father  lived,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  he  would  say  to  these 

New  notions  of  the  younger  men,  who  farm  by  chemistries  : 

There  's  different  stock  and  other  grass  ;  there  's  patent  plough  and  cart  — 

Five  hundred  dollars  for  a  bull !    it  would  have  broke  his  heart. 


XI. 

The  maples  must  be  putting  out :  •  I  see  a  something  red 
Down  yonder  where  the  clearing  laps  across  the  meadow's  head. 
Swamp-cabbage  grows  beside  the  run  ;    the  green  is  good  to  see, 
I>,it  wheat's  the  color,  after  all,  that  cheers  and  'livens  me. 


60  THE    OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER. 

XII. 

They  think  I  have  an  easy  time,  no  need  to  worry  now  — 

Sit  in  the  porch  all  day  and  watch  them  mow,  and  sow,  and  plough 

Sleep  in  the  summer  in  the  shade,  in  winter  in  the  sun  — 

I'd  rather  do  the  thing  myself,  and  know  just  how  it's  done! 


XIIT. 

Well  —  I  suppose  I  'm  old,  and  yet  't  is  not  so  long  ago 
When  Reuben  spread  the  swath  to  dry,  and  Jesse  learned  to  mow, 
And  William  raked,  and  Israel  hoed,  and  Joseph  pitched  with  me  : 
But  such  a  man  as  I  was  then  my  boys  will  never  be  ! 

XIV. 

I  don't  mind  William's  hankering  for  lectures  and  for  books ; 
He  never  had  a  farming  knack  —  you  'd  see  it  in  his  looks  ; 
But  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  and  he  is  well  to  do  : 
T  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  could  say  the  same  of  Jesse,  too. 

xv. 

There's  one  black  sheep  in  every  flock,  so  there  must  be  in  mine, 
But  I  was  wrong  that  second  time  his  bond  to  undersign  : 
It 's  less  than  what  his  share  will  be  —  but  there  's  the  interest ! 
In  ten  years  more  I  might  have  had  two  thousand  to  invest. 


THE    OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMED. 


61 


XVI. 

There 's  no  use  thinking  of  it  now,  and  yet  it  makes  me  sore  ; 
The  way  I  've  slaved  and  saved,  I  ought  to  count  a  little  more. 
I  never  lost  a  foot  of  land,  and  that 's  a  comfort,  sure, 
And  if  they  do  not  call  me  rich,  they  cannot  call  me  poor. 


XVII. 

Well,  well !  ten  thousand  times  I  've  thought  the  things  I  'm  thinking  now ; 
I've  thought  them  in  the  harvest-field  and  in  the  clover  mow; 
And  often  I  get  tired  of  them,  and  wish  I 'd  something  new  — 
But  this  is  all  I  've  had  and  known  ;    so  what 's  a  man  to  do  ? 


XVIII. 


'T  is  like  my  time  is  nearly  out,  of  that  I  'm  not  afraid  ; 

I  never  cheated  any  man,  and  all  my  debts  are  paid. 

They  call  it  rest  that  we  shall  have,  but  work  would  do  no  harm  ; 

There  can't  be  rivers  there  and  fields,  without  some  sort  o'  farm  ! 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


1C] 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


